


What Christmas Is All About

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Family, Fluff, Holidays, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: Time to celebrate the season again...Darcy stile. Billy and Mabel have modest parts in the school Nativity play. What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Mark Darcy/Bridget Jones
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	What Christmas Is All About

**Author's Note:**

> I drew inspiration for this one from multiple sources. In Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy, Bridget references a school Nativity play in which Mabel's dolly, Saliva, was picked to play the baby Jesus, and she feels wistful, wishing Mark could have been alive to see it. So, naturally I imagined what it might look like if he were. I'm also paying homage to a Charley Brown Christmas special (not the original) but one in which Sally confuses her lines in the Christmas play and mistakenly thinks that "All I have to say is 'Hark', and then Harold the angel starts to sing." I also for some reason have been thinking a lot lately about the Kafka's Motorbike scene in the first film, particularly that moment when mark starts to cross the room toward Bridget after her little debacle with the microphone, but Daniel gets there first. So because I've been thinking about it, now so is Mark. Typos and formatting errors are mine, and please as always point them out.

Twas the night of the school Nativity play, and in keeping with tradition, the Darcy family was in danger of running late. . . again. Mark gave the knot in his tie a twitch and turned to Bridget, who was frantically attempting to secure a red bow to the end of one of Mabel’s plats as the child squirmed. 

“Mummy, I muth tell you something.” 

“Mabel, please, hold still. Mark, can you check on Billy?” 

“Yes, but we’d best hurry.” Not waiting to hear his wife’s retort, he strode down the hall and into Billy’s room to find the boy struggling to do up the last button of his shirt. 

“Dammit!” Billy muttered under his breath; then glanced up, horrified, to see his father in the doorway. 

“Need a hand, kiddo?” 

“It’s too stiff!” Billy declared, his finger fumbling with the button-hole. 

Mark smiled. “They can be when they’re brand new. Here, let me.” Crouching in front of his son, he secured the button and automatically smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from the shirt’s collar. “Perfect. Just one finishing touch.” Billy rolled his eyes as Mark reached for the necktie on the bedside table. 

“Do I have to?” 

“Without question, yes.” 

“Mummy always does the knot up too tight,” Billy complained, hooking a finger in his collar and giving it a tug for emphasis. 

“Yes, well, I’m better at this than Mummy is.” 

“How long is this going to take?” 

“Fifteen seconds. Ten if you hold still.” And in fact, Mark had hardly finished the sentence before the tie was knotted and straightened. “There, see? Have a look.” 

Billy peered at his reflection; then shrugged. “I still don’t get it. I mean, no one’s going to see it beneath my costume.” 

“That’s hardly the point,” said Mark. “You’ll know it’s there, and you’ll feel more confident.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you’re a Darcy. Now, come on. We’re late.” 

The pair of them were just on their way downstairs when an ear-splitting shriek from Mabel turned them round. “Mummyyyyy! I can’t find Saliva!” Resigned to their inevitable tardiness, Mark headed toward the source of the noise. Ordinarily, the MIA status of Mabel’s favorite dolly wouldn’t have been cause for delay; tonight, however, it threatened the very meaning of Christmas, or at least, the evening’s performance. Saliva, for some reason, had been picked to star as the Baby Jesus—a performance that was already proving the source of more drama than either Mabel’s small speaking part or Billy’s role as one of the three wise men. 

“Mabel, if you knew Saliva was missing, why couldn’t you mention it when we actually had time to look for her?” Bridget demanded, looking for all the world as if she wouldn’t be terribly fussed to learn that Christmas would be canceled this year. 

“I twied, Mummy, but you kept telling me to sit thtill!” 

“Mabel,” said Mark, “let’s make this easier. Where do you last remember seeing Saliva?” 

Mabel glowered at her father, hands on hips. “I don’t know, Daddy. Dath’s de point!” 

“Of course, right. Forgive me.” Suddenly recalling an incident when Saliva had been discovered under Mabel’s bed after being, according to Mabel, frightened by one of Billy’s toy dinosaurs, Mark went into his daughter’s room to test the theory. A quick rummage beneath the bed revealed the doll, which he tucked beneath his arm, feeling increasingly resentful toward the entire business of Christmas. 

“Where did you find her?” Bridget asked when he reappeared and handed Saliva over to Mabel. 

“Under the bed.” 

“She was hiding, you see,” Mabel explained. “Billy’s dinothaur was going to eat her.” 

“Yes, well, we’ll have to discuss the dinosaur’s dietary habits a bit later,” said Mark. “If we don’t leave now, we’ll be lucky to get there before the new year.” 

* * *

“Thank god! You made it!” Farzia greeted Bridget with a hug and an anxious whisper as she and Mark slipped into their seats. 

“Thanks for saving our places,” Bridget whispered back, returning her friend’s embrace. 

“What happened?” 

“The usual.” Bridget shrugged. “Missing socks, misplaced dollies, neckties that wouldn’t tie.” Farzia shot her husband a warning look as he stole furtive glances at his mobile. Mark, meanwhile, was watching the stage preparations with mild amusement. Children scurried hither and thither, knocking into one another, toppling music stands, and coming dangerously close to upending the manger. 

“They’re about to start,” Farzia whispered to her husband; then added to Bridget and gesturing at Mark, “How do you get him off that thing?” 

“They’re like dogs. You just have to train them. Tell them to behave and bribe them with rewards. It’s all about positive reinforcement.” 

“I heard that,” Mark murmured in her ear. 

“Good. That was the point.” 

The program proceeded predictably, with an off-key rendition of “Away in a manger” preceding a halting recitation of the Christmas story punctuated by whispered prompts of forgotten lines from teachers and parents. As a group of barn-yard animals began a series of mooing, bleating, and one inexplicable meow, Mark and Bridget kept their gazes trained on their daughter. Bridget had her fingers crossed in her lap, and Mark reached over to pat her hand. 

“It’s one line,” he whispered. “She’s been wandering round the house repeating it to herself for weeks.” ‘The cattle were lowing in the stable.’ That was all. One line. What could possibly go wrong? 

Mabel stepped into the spotlight, took a deep breath, and boldly recited, “Cosmata was lowing in the stable.” Bridget lowered her face into her hands to hide her blush, and Mark winced as Mabel clapped a hand to her mouth and then attempted to hide herself behind several sheep. The slip, which could be easily explained away by the fact that Mabel’s friend Cosmata was at that moment vocally impersonating a cow, evoked a wave of chuckles and sympathetic groans from parents. Farzia winced and put a comforting arm around Bridget’s shoulders. 

“Sort of thing that could happen to anyone, right?” she whispered. If they thought the ad-libbed entertainment would end their, they were gravely mistaken. Several angels, appropriately enough, provided a temporary glimmer of hope as they guided the shepherds to the newborn babe, and given how unpredictably the live actors were performing, Mark had to silently applaud the teachers responsible for casting a doll as the Christ child. The fact that said doll was Saliva, however, presented the tragic curtain-call of the Darcy children’s dramatic aspirations. 

Billy, straight-backed and confident in his wise man’s role, approached the manger with his two companions, bowed low to the child-sized Mary and Joseph, and proclaimed in a ringing voice, “We’ve brought gifts to the baby Saliva.” 

“And cut,” Mark muttered, willing himself with every ounce of composure he possessed not to emulate Bridget, who had once again hid her face in her hands. 

“Oh, Christ,” she mumbled. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Mark whispered, “but I think he’s officially abandoned this production.” 

They sat through the remainder of the program in agonized silence until the closing hymn of “Joy to the World” was met with the exuberant applause that only proud and biased parents were capable of. Too inconsolable To endure post-production hot chocolate with their classmates, Billy and Mabel begged to leave, with which their parents readily agreed. 

“You both did really well,” Bridget said bracingly on the drive home as both children huddled dejectedly in the back seat. Mark lifted a brow. Not that he didn’t appreciate Bridget’s herculean effort to put a brave face on even the ugliest situation, but he was more inclined to find the teachable moment in the tragedy rather than sugar-coating it. 

“I ruined de whole play!” Mabel sniffled disconsolately. 

“Really, ruining the entire play is quite a job, don’t you think?” said Mark. “It seems unfair for you to take all the credit.” Bridget shot him a glare. “Well, I mean, if we’re looking at the performance as a whole,” he argued, “I think it was really a team effort.” 

“I did,” insisted Mabel. “I ruined de whole play. Cosmata hates me; Thelonious hates me; everybody hates me!” 

“Nobody hates you, darling,” Mark murmured mechanically, his eyes focused on the traffic as he indicated. 

“If anyone ruined the play, it was me,” declared Billy. “It was an epic fail.” Despite Mark and Bridget’s combined efforts to offer comfort, both children remained resolutely inconsolable. Once home, Bridget suggested mugs of hot chocolate by the tree and sent the children upstairs to change into their pajamas. Daniel had texted Bridget to let her know he’d be dropping in with some early Christmas presents for the children, which would hopefully prove to be a sufficient distraction. 

“Why do teachers have to ruin Christmas by making children be in plays?” she grumbled as she stalked into the kitchen and began piling a plate with oatmeal cookies. 

“Are those for you or the children?” Mark quipped as he rummaged through the cupboards for mugs. 

“It’s a pity party. Snacks are essential and calories don’t count.” 

Mark kissed the top of her head. “Do they ever?” Bridget shoved the tray at him without comment and reached for the wine he’d uncorked. 

“I don’t get it,” Billy said a few minutes later, sprawled in front of the tree and munching dejectedly on an oatmeal cookie. “We practiced and practiced, and still, it was the worst Christmas play ever!” 

“I’m sure there have been far worse,” Mark offered. “Not that I’ve seen many recently, but that’s beside the point. Everyone makes mistakes, Billy.”

“Not in front of the whole school.” 

“Even in front of the whole school, I assure you.” 

“I still say it was an epic fail.” 

Mark shrugged and reached for a cookie. “Billy, what have I always told you about mistakes?” 

“That they’re just opportunities for improvement.” 

“Precisely, so, what you must do, then--” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bridget huffed under her breath. “Let’s skip the boarding-school lecture, can we?” Glaring at Mark, she left her spot on the sofa and flopped down beside the children, tucking her legs beneath her. “Billy, Mabel, nobody’s perfect. Making mistakes doesn’t make you any less of a person, and anyone who thinks that isn’t worth bothering with.” 

Mark offered another shrug. “That’s what I was trying to say.” 

“It’s what you meant, anyway,” said Bridget, her expression softening. 

When the doorbell rang, Mark got to his feet; Mabel, in her haste to follow, nearly overturned her hot chocolate as she leapt up.

“Is dat a supwithe, Daddy?” 

“Might be. YOU wait here with your mum while I go and see.” As expected, when Mark opened the front door, Daniel entered with an armful of packages and a grin that warmed Mark’s heart despite the blast of winter wind that swept in with him. 

“How went the great theatrical performance?” inquired Daniel, depositing his packages on the table in the entryway and shedding his coat. “I’m sorry I missed it.” 

“Don’t be,” said Mark. “Frankly, I think there’d be considerably more peace on earth without Nativity plays.” 

Daniel lifted a brow. “Should I ask?” 

“You shouldn’t, but you won’t need to. I’m sure you’ll hear the tale with little prompting.” 

As anticipated, Daniel’s appearance temporarily distracted the children from their disastrous dramatic interpretation of the Christ child’s birth, aided and abetted by the fact that he came bearing gifts. 

“Mummy didn’t tell us you were coming,” exclaimed Billy as his godfather swung him round in a bearhug. 

“Or that you were bwinging pwenthens,” added Mabel, eyeing the brightly wrapped boxes he’d plunked down onto the sofa. 

“Santa asked me to deliver these a bit early, you see,” Daniel explained, “because I’ll be on holiday for Christmas.” 

“With Natalia?” asked Billy around another mouthful of oatmeal cookie. “The one with the big boobies?” 

“Billy!” Bridget’s admonition was slightly less effective than intended owing to the fact that she endeavored to suppress a giggle that turned into a hiccup. 

“Don’t worry, Darce,” said Daniel as Mark lowered his head into his hands. “I promise she’s a model of ladylike gentility.” 

“That’s a debatable point,” grumbled Mark. 

“Anyway, never mind about that now.” Daniel turned back to the children. “How was the Nativity play?” 

Predictably, Billy’s shoulders slumped. “Epic fail level 3,” he said, reaching for another cookie. With numerous interruptions and protests of “No, it didn’t happen like dat!” from Mabel, the evening’s events were narrated for Daniel, who kept a respectfully sober countenance until they’d finished. 

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “it’s not really as bad as you think. Did anyone forget to turn the microphone on, by any chance?” 

“Dat’s Thilly, Uncle Daniel,” Mabel said seriously. 

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Daniel’s eye glinted mischievously as he glanced over at Bridget, “but your mum knows differently, don’t you, Bridge?” 

Suddenly more animated, Billy sat up straighter. “What happened?” 

“Come on, Bridge,” coaxed Daniel, grin widening as Bridget’s frown deepened. “We might as well tell them. Make it a teachable moment.” 

“Fine.” She shrugged and gave a resigned sigh. “I suppose it can’t hurt to have a laugh at my expense. I’m used to it.” 

Daniel cleared his throat theatrically. “So you see, children, when your mum and I worked together, there was this big event—like a party—and your mum had to give a little speech, only she thought the mic wasn’t working and went through the entire thing without realizing she just needed to switch it on.” 

“You should have checked it, Mummy,” Mabel scolded while Billy groaned sympathetically. 

“Epic fail, Mummy!” 

“Actually,” said Daniel, “it was brilliant. For years, people thought they needed fancy electrical equipment to make people sit up and take notice, and then in comes your mum to show them it’s all about projection. It was quite an impressive show of oratorical fireworks.” 

Mabel’s eyes widened. “There were fireworks?” 

“No, darling,” Bridget said gently. “It’s just an expression.” 

“Well, I’m not so sure about that, Bridge.” Daniel sent a wink in her direction. “If my memory serves me, there were some very real fireworks as well.” 

“Daniel!” Bridget squealed, making frantic shushing gestures at him, but her expression softened when their eyes met for a lingering moment; she blushed, and a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. Mark pointedly clearing his throat effectively broke the spell. 

“Right,” Bridget said airily, skating over the moment. “Why don’t we see what Uncle Daniel’s got in those presents?” The gifts, not surprisingly, were high on entertainment, low on educational value, and questionable on age appropriateness. The videogames appeared to involve building complicated weapons with which to blast aliens, Billy immediately turned his toy laser on Saliva and attempted to vaporize her, and Mabel made her scantily-clad Barbie doll perform an impressive belly-dance, the moves of which both her parents were hard-pressed to determine where or how she’d learned. Despite her dismay, Bridget made only feeble attempts to reprimand the children before joining with Daniel in their antics. Yet it didn’t escape her notice that Mark observed the banter from his position on the sofa with a subdued, even distant expression; he seemed almost to be watching not the scene in front of him, but one that played out in his private thoughts. 

Eventually, when Bridget noticed Mabel surreptitiously rubbing her eyes, she announced it was time to say goodnight. 

“Why?” Billy demanded predictably. 

“Do I have to remind you that Santa’s watching?” responded Bridget. 

“Oh!” Mabel’s eyes brightened. “Are we playing de questions game?” 

“How can you really tell Santa’s watching?” piped up Billy. 

“How do you know he isn’t?” countered Daniel, joining in the fun. 

“How can he watch everyone at the same time?” demanded Billy. 

“Don’t you believe in magic?” Daniel shot back. 

“How do we really know magic is real?” came Billy’s reply. 

“Do you really want to question that so close to Christmas?” Bridget queried. 

“But,” insisted Billy with solemnity, “can you just say something is real because you can’t prove it isn’t?” 

“All right,” said Mark, who had until this point remained a silent referee, “I think that’s enough. Uncle Daniel would probably like to get home before next Christmas.” 

“You lost, Daddy!” crowed Mabel. “Dat Wathn’t a question!” 

“I don’t think he was playing,” Billy pointed out. 

“Never mind,” said Mark. “Let’s say goodnight now.” Hugs, kisses, and choruses of ‘Merry Christmas!’ were exchanged, and with one last pat for each of the children, Daniel took his leave. Once he’d departed and the children were tucked up in bed, Bridget finally had an opportunity to broach the subject of Mark’s sudden change in mood. 

“I know I say this a lot,” she observed as she swept a scattering of oatmeal cookie crumbs into a napkin and gathered up the plates, “but I think Billy and Mabel are good for Daniel.” 

“Yes,” Mark murmured, not meeting her eyes as he picked up the empty hot chocolate mugs beside the tree. 

“They make him laugh,” said Bridget, “and they keep him from getting too lonely, I think.” Mark nodded. “Because he is lonely, Mark; I’m sure he is sometimes.”

“He certainly spends enough time in the company of women to remedy that,” Mark said dryly, “and while we’re on the subject, I think I’d prefer it if Daniel not have. . . company when he has charge of the children.” 

“He only does it to impress them.” 

“If Billy’s observation was any indication, he seemed highly impressed, although I’m not sure our son’s burgeoning regard for wobbly bits, however natural and just, is wise to cultivate at his age.” 

Bridget giggled. “Not the children, Mark, the girlfriends. They think it’s so noble and responsible of him, having godchildren.” 

“Which,” Mark pointed out, “would be far more impressive if he were more diligent about demonstrating those qualities.” 

“You’re just pissed off at Daniel and looking for someplace to direct it.” Mark said nothing, and after a moment’s thought, Bridget blew out a sigh of frustration, set down the plates, took the mugs from Mark’s hands and set them down as well. Then she took hold of his hand and pulled him in for a kiss. 

“Come on, Mark,” she said gently. 

“What?” he demanded. 

“Are we going to talk about it, or are you just going to brood all night?” 

“Talk about what?” 

“Seriously?” Bridget rolled her eyes an heaved another sigh. “Mark, I saw the way you were looking at Daniel. You were annoyed at him for bringing up the Kafka’s Motorbike launch, and not just because it probably wasn’t appropriate for the children’s ears.” 

“Why would I have been annoyed?” 

“Because it made you jealous.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mark protested. 

“No, don’t you be ridiculous.” Bridget glared up at him, hands on hips. “Mark, I know how much time and effort it took you and Daniel to mend fences. I thought I was going to have to knock your heads together in the end, but that doesn’t mean if something’s bothering you that we can’t talk about it.” 

Mark opened his lips, hesitated, lowered his eyes, swallowed, and finally let out the breath he'd been holding. “Look, it’s nothing. You’ll think I’m being silly.” 

“Bet I won’t,” said Bridget. “Come on, tell me. Please?” Taking his hand again, she led him to the sofa and, once settled, curled up next to him. “So, let’s hear the worst.” 

“The thing is, I wasn’t jealous…exactly.” 

Bridget lifted a brow. “’Exactly’?” 

“It was just, well, when Daniel mentioned that night, at the Kafka’s Motorbike launch, and whenever I think about it, really, it reminds me of something.” 

“Mark, you’re being annoyingly evasive. If you want me to offer a sympathy shag, you have to tell me why you’re upset. That’s how it works.” 

Lowering his eyes again, he sat silently for several moments and contemplated their linked hands. “Look,” he said finally, “I don’t think you ever knew this, and I wasn’t ever going to tell you, because in retrospect it doesn’t matter, but that night, at the launch, after your little. . . microphone mishap, I wanted to—I tried to approach you.” 

“Did you?” Bridget frowned. “That mightn’t have been the best time, seeing how I’d just proven myself to be the verbally incontinent spinster you’d described me as.” 

“Yes, well, among other motivations, I’d intended to apologize for that.” 

“Other. . . motivations? You don’t mean—you wanted—you were going to ask me out?” 

“Is that so hard to believe?” 

“Well,” Bridget’s lips twitched a smile, “considering you’d insulted me to your mum when I was within earshot, you can’t blame me for being a little skeptical.” 

“Fair enough.” 

“I didn’t even notice you coming over,” she mused. “What stopped you?” Then, wincing, she added, “Oh, right. Stupid Bridget,” she muttered. “Daniel.” 

Still holding her hand in his, Mark absently stroked the spot on her knuckles just above her wedding ring. “The thing is, I don’t know, I don’t remember precisely what I was thinking, or what my intentions were. I suppose I just wanted to talk to you. I felt terribly embarrassed about the things I’d said at the turkey curry buffet, and frankly, I was intrigued. You looked—you were so. . . different.” 

“Well,” Bridget pointed out, “Mum hadn’t dressed me for the occasion, so I wasn’t wearing a carpet.” 

Mark laughed quietly. “Yes, but apart from that, you were, even under all the pretense, so much more—I don’t know—real, so much more genuine than everyone else. Even when you were trying to keep up appearances, be professional, introduce people with interesting facts—you clearly thought the whole thing was a laugh. It was—you were a breath of fresh air.” 

“I thought you were having a laugh at my expense,” said Bridget, “the way you brought up the paddling pool incident when you introduced me to Natasha.” 

“I thought,” murmured Mark, bringing her hand to his lips, “that you were the most interesting person in the room, but I’ve often wondered about that night—what might have happened if I’d behaved differently, if I’d got to you before Daniel did. Perhaps Daniel wouldn’t ever have had a chance to hurt you the way he did; perhaps we’d—I’d have done things differently. I mightn’t have made the mistakes I made.” 

“Or,” Bridget quipped, “I might have told you to fuck off and come back when you’d had that giant gherkin surgically removed from your backside.” 

“Or that,” Mark conceded. 

“Or maybe we’d never have got together, and we wouldn’t have had Billy or Mabel, and they wouldn’t have a totally inept but affectionate godfather. You can’t spend your life reaching for the things you might have had, because then you can’t hold onto what you do have, and really, isn’t that what Christmas is all about?” For answer, Mark hugged her close and touched his lips to her brow. “And you’re forgetting something,” she added, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. 

“Which is?” 

“I might have slept with Daniel, but you’re the one I chose to wake up next to every morning.” 

“A gift,” whispered Mark, cradling her face between his hands, “that I cherish every day.” She was right, of course; the mischief and mayhem of the evening had taken center stage, but now, in the late-night hush, with the warmth of the fire and Bridget’s arms around him, Mark realized not simply that this was all there was, but more importantly, that this was all there needed to be. Nothing else mattered in the end: not near-disastrous Nativity plays, not age-inappropriate Christmas presents, and certainly not regretting the past instead of focusing on the present. What Christmas was about—what life was about, Mark thought as he took Bridget’s mouth in a lingering kiss, was to capture each moment, however miraculous or mundane, and treasure it for the gift it was. 


End file.
